


Rest Your Weary Bones

by Schwoozie



Series: And Baby Makes Four [13]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Zombies, Baby Fic, Couch Cuddles, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, House Sitting, M/M, Massage, Multi, One Shot, Polyamory, Rain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-13 06:16:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13564590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schwoozie/pseuds/Schwoozie
Summary: Hershel accepted Daryl, Rick, and Beth's relationship months ago, but being at the farm still brings up a lot of insecurities that Daryl's done his best to leave behind. As ever, though, his partners' love is more than enough to pull him through.





	Rest Your Weary Bones

**Author's Note:**

> Ace-spectrum Daryl is everything to me. I hope you enjoy this bit of teeth-rotting fluff :)

Daryl jerks his head back, attempting to toss the wet hair out of his face but only succeeding in jostling the crick in his neck. He grimaces, wiping a dirty hand on equally dirty jeans before digging his fingers into his shoulder. He grunts at the sharp pain that shoots down his back, already cramping from his crouched position.

“Goddammit,” he mutters, fiddling with the hammer in his hand as he squints up at the preternaturally darkened sky. The day started overcast and the clouds only thickened as the hours ticked by. Now it's mid-afternoon and the steady rain that started around noon is still falling, worming inside Daryl's battered boots and turning the naked dirt around the fence posts to mud. It's useless to keep working on repairs in these conditions; as soon as he's got one post standing straight the one beside it starts to tilt, slipping balefully in the muck as he tries to hammer in the crossbeams in the precious seconds before they misalign completely.

He doesn't look behind himself, but he could. Could look at the big white farmhouse; the lights in the living room window, an upstairs bedroom, maybe a silhouette passing by to peer out at him soaking wet in the field.

He expects one of them to come after him any minute. Could say he's surprised it's taking them so long, but that would be a lie. They know him. They've seen him in Hershel's house before. It's Beth's house too—and she tells him every time they come that if it's hers that means it's his too—but even after the shaky understanding he and Hershel reached the 24 hours they watched Annie together, Daryl can't help feeling like he loses ground at the farm. His shoulders are too wide, his tread too heavy, his body always moments from tipping over and bringing the whole place to the ground with him. And there Hershel would be, standing atop the rubble with that look in his eye: distaste with a touch of pity for the mangy oaf that couldn't help it.

He's projecting—that's what Rick says and Rick knows his shit and Rick knows Daryl—but that doesn't stop Daryl from feeling self-conscious beneath Hershel's roof, even when the man himself isn't there. Maybe times like those most of all, his absence making Daryl feel even more acutely the dissonance of being with his family in a home that isn't theirs.

Through the rain Daryl hears the tread of boots, clumsy in the mud, and he sighs, reaching forward once more to try and yank the posts in line, pretending to be ignorant of the approaching figure even when it stops a few paces behind Daryl, watching as he struggles.

Finally, there's a sigh. “Daryl,” Rick says.

Daryl gives the post another halfhearted tug before bowing his head, blinking at the rain that stings his eyes.

He hears Rick's approach and isn't surprised when a hand lands on his shoulder. Isn't surprised either when he melts into it. It's been a long time since he felt the need to hide that kind of thing, at least when no outsiders are watching.

Rick squeezes, his fingers catching on Daryl's sore muscles and a moan rips from his throat. It hurts, but he trusts Rick and Beth with his body more than he trusts himself, and that trust allows the sparking nerves to travel all the way down to his cock, trapped in rain-wet jeans.

He can't imagine Rick didn't notice the exact cadence of his reaction, but he doesn't follow up on it; tugs on Daryl's shoulder now, urging him to turn around and lift a hand to be pulled to his feet.

Rick's holding an umbrella, not big enough to keep himself completely dry, but he doesn't look like a drowned cat like Daryl must. Feeling water rolling down the umbrella plopping against his scalp, Daryl steps forward instinctively, taking in the quirk of Rick's lips before ducking his head and pressing it into Rick's throat, sighing as Rick brings a loose arm around his shoulders.

“Ready to come in?” Rick asks.

“You giving me a choice?” Daryl asks. There's no resentment behind the question. It isn't even a question, really, not when he knows the answer.

“No,” Rick says, as Daryl knew he would. “You're gonna get sick, and I for one am not planning on taking care of your stubborn ass.”

Daryl smiles and lifts his head, meets Rick's sparkling eyes. He takes half a step closer and presses his lips to Rick's, tastes the rain still running down his face from his wet hair.

Without a word he reaches out and Rick meets him and hand in hand they turn to walk back to the farmhouse. The light in the upstairs window has dimmed since he last looked. Even with Rick so close a shiver runs through his body and he realizes exactly how waterlogged he is.

Rick doesn't say anything to it; just squeezes his hand and quickens his step. The umbrella shades Daryl's view and he's sure that Rick's abandoned himself to the rain at this point, but Daryl knows it would be fruitless to mention. He used to push back on this kind of thing, being taken care of like this, but he's since learned that pulling away will only make Beth and Rick hold on tighter. Sometimes they hold on tighter anyway and he's stopped forcing himself to pretend he doesn't like it.

It makes him uncomfortable sometimes, especially if they're in public. If he's already feeling prickly that kind of gesture's the surest way to make him lash out, pull away before they can, storm out and ride his bike for a few hours before coming home deflated, trudging up the stairs and unlocking the door and crawling into bed between them, letting them cover him with kisses and hands and fingers that wipe away his tears and apologies mouthed into the pillow.

He's lucky. Damn lucky, luckier than he deserves by far, but once he accepted it wasn’t about to change any time soon, he opened himself to it, and sometimes he thinks he's the happiest son of a bitch ever come out of a Georgia trailer park.

He's a long, long way from the trailer park now, standing on the sturdy covered porch as Rick crouches to unlace both their boots, pushes the screen door open so Daryl can step directly from his shoes onto the warm welcome mat. He sheds his jacket quickly as Rick pushes past him, grabbing two towels waiting on the sideboard. He hands one to Daryl and lays the other under the coat hooks, leaving the umbrella open to dry and hanging their jackets to drip.

Rick kisses his cheek, squeezes his shoulder again. “Go shower,” Rick says.

“Where are Beth and Annie?” Daryl asks, peeling the wet socks from his feet and grimacing at how clammy they feel on the hardwood.

“Upstairs napping.” Rick walks away from him towards the living room and Daryl trails behind, feels his cheeks heat as Rick begins stripping off his damp clothes right in front of him. Daryl must make a noise cause Rick pauses with his shirt off, turning to glance at Daryl and smirk as he pops the button on his jeans. “Show's free, but if you wanna touch you gotta shower.”

Daryl could ask Rick to join him—knows it's what Rick or Beth would usually do, were the situation flipped—but he isn't really in the mood for that now. Looks at the wool and sweats that Rick's pulling on, the fire smoldering behind its grate, and doesn't want to deal with anything as pressing as making each other come. Even if all they do in the shower is share water, the thought of so much bare skin so close is too overwhelming. At least for now.

Daryl gives himself one more lingering look before turning and heading up the stairs.

His chest clenches a little when he opens the bathroom door and finds his own pajamas waiting for him on the closed toilet seat. He swallows down the feeling to deal with later. He moves the clothes to the sink so he can piss and showers quickly, soaping himself up and rubbing aggressively until his skin turns pink and the water runs clear.

When he shuts the water off and steps out of the shower, the house is just as quiet as it was before. He stands for a moment, naked on the bathmat, looking out the small window at the rain streaking across the glass. He didn't turn the light on when he entered the bathroom and he doesn't turn it on now; lets the filtered half-light wash across him. It's just as cleansing as the shower he'd taken, maybe more-so, and with the sound of the rain drumming against the wooden slats of the walls and roof, he understands a little better why Beth loves this house so much.

He runs a towel across his skin and through his hair until he's dry enough to not soak through the clothes Rick left him, dresses without looking at himself and exits the bathroom, leaving the door open to vent the humidity. On the walk to the stairs he notices soft light glowing from underneath a door and pauses, glancing up and smiling softly.

He remembers the first time Beth brought them here, for the baby shower Hershel hosted as both a peace offering and a welcome home. Daryl felt awkward as hell but Beth was glowing, luminous with smiles and tears behind her eyes, at least one hand secure on her stomach at all times, shoulders pressed firmly into Rick and Daryl on either side of her. Daryl had rarely seen her in a room with people beside himself and Rick, and certainly not people she loves, and it hurt a little to see her lighting up in their company. It made him feel like a beast with a princess locked in a tower; selfish like he hadn't felt in a bad way for so long. He'd kept her from this. Being with him and Rick was always her choice, always, but watching her reconnect with the people she'd grown up with, who she'd been so afraid of losing when the truth came out... she got so much from the two of them but Daryl wondered that day, really wondered, if it was worth the cost.

But once the guests had left and Hershel and Maggie waved them away from the washing up, Beth took Rick's and Daryl's hands in hers and led them upstairs. It was natural for them to fall in behind her in case she lost her balance, but she navigated the steep, narrow stairs with a lightness that belied the weight in her stomach. She let go of them only to open the first door on the second floor, pausing in the entrance with her breath held before walking inside, stopping in the middle of the pastel purple carpet and looking around, hands on her stomach. When she turned around tears streaked her cheeks and her mouth was wobbling and Rick and Daryl didn't hesitate before closing the door and going to her, cradling her between them as she cried. They ended up on the plush comforter of the tiny twin bed, Beth between them as her tears dried and her smile returned, soft and still, her eyes closed as she breathed in the two of them in her childhood bed.

He stands in front of the door, studying the construction paper he'd been too distracted at the baby shower to really take in. He knows Beth volunteered at the local Church while in high school, watching over the kids too young or too rowdy to sit through adult services. It took a while to get the hang of it, she told Rick and Daryl, but when she found the confidence to do more than watch the kids, to _lead_ them, these became some of the best Sundays of her life. She'd read aloud from a children's Bible while the kids did arts and crafts, interrupting the chatty ones with questions about what they were making and what God might think of it, how Jesus held them and their work in his heart with no judgement, no reservations. On her last day before she left for college the kids presented her with a card, her name in the middle, their own names and doodles filling the rest of the space. Daryl brushes his fingers against the uneven, childish handwriting, the pulse in his chest growing painful.

She didn't shut the door all the way and it's easy to push it open silently, take in the room bathed in the gentle light of her bedside lamp, his eyes settling without resistance on the figures on the bed.

Again, they're on top of the comforter, but Beth's dug up a thin blanket from somewhere, has it pulled up to her ribs. She lies on her side, long hair loose and sleep-tossed, breaths deep and even and an arm draped carefully over Annie where she sleeps beside her. Beth piled pillows along Annie's side to keep her from tumbling over the edge, shrinking the already small bed to barely a pallet. But she's a small woman and Annie sleeps easily on her back in her mama's hold. Their breathing is almost in synch, deep and even, long eyelashes and soft skin equally luminous in the low light.

Daryl wants so badly to come closer; to brush their cheeks with his fingers, kiss their foreheads and breathe in their familiar scent, feel their own breath on his skin. He can see it so clearly: Beth's eyelashes fluttering before she lifts her lids and looks at him; her sleepy smile as she gathers a stirring Annie closer, turns her face up for Daryl's gentle kiss, his palm curved around her cheek. Annie waking too, and whimpering; Daryl moving the pillows so he can perch on the edge of the bed, shush his girl with a hand on her belly, her little hands curling around his fingers as she blinks up at him, recognizes him, _smiles_ , babbles her baby version of “hello.”

He wants, but he can't bear to risk waking them. This is Beth's first real time off since she went back to work after her maternity leave. She works so hard, as a nurse and a mother. She deserves her rest.

Beth shifts in her sleep, murmuring into the pillow and moving her face closer to the crown of Annie's head. Daryl takes a long last look before stepping away and closing the door to a crack.

The ache in his chest is still there, even heavier than before, and it takes a few deep breaths before he can get himself to move.

Rick's lounging on the more comfortable of the two couches when Daryl gets downstairs. His eyes are closed too but Daryl can tell from his breathing that he's only in a doze. Daryl intentionally steps on a creaky floorboard and Rick's eyes open easily, finding Daryl like he knew he was there the whole time.

“Thought we were here to do a job, not lie on our asses all day,” Daryl says.

As Daryl knew he would, Rick picks up on the teasing in Daryl's gruff tone, grinning and pulling himself into a sitting position, one leg bent at the knee and the other dangling towards the floor.

“I wouldn't call housesitting for my father-in-law a _job_ ,” he says, leaning easily into the cushions. “More like taking in the mail in exchange for a few days of free cable.”

Daryl snorts. “Ain't nothing like the fathers-in-law I grew up around.”

Rick's face softens. He pats the sofa between his legs. “C'mere, sweetheart.”

Daryl goes easily, sinking into the cradle of Rick's body. He shuffles a little to get comfortable, groaning in annoyance when his sore neck twinges.

“Fuck,” he mutters, stretching until the bones crack again.

Daryl feels pressure on his back as Rick pushes him forward gently. Rick moves until he's sitting up straight against the arm of the couch. When Daryl feels Rick's hands press in on his shoulders, warm and callused and strong, the whimper that passes his lips is almost embarrassing.

“We told you not to go out there,” Rick murmurs, digging his fingers in just right. He isn't as good at this as Beth is but he's still pretty damn good, and his hands are big enough to act as a masseuse and heat pack all at once. “You're hard as a rock.”

Daryl's lips quirk as his eyes slide shut. “Ain't used to hearing that in this context.”

“We can work on it in the other one too,” Rick says, running his palms up and down the cords of Daryl's neck.

“Nah,” Daryl murmurs. “Not now. This is good.”

Rick presses a kiss to the skin his hands had just moved across, working his thumbs beneath Daryl's shoulder blades and eliciting another groan. “Alright. You keep making those noises, though, don't blame me if I get there first.”

“Enjoy the blue balls then, Officer. I'm on vacation.”

They fall into a companionable silence broken only by Daryl's soft moans as Rick works the knots out of his back.

The ache in Daryl's chest pounds in time with the pulse in Rick's thumbs. He wonders sometimes if that ache will ever go away; if one day he'll wake up and look to Rick and Beth at his sides and not feel like his ribcage is cracking in two with the delirious pain of it, of opening his eyes and finding the world exactly as he wants it.

Things could be better. He could make more money, take the promotion at the garage that's practically been his for years, help pull together the down-payment on a house; and fuck, the idea of _owning_ something—of the government holding a piece of paper with his name on it that has nothing to do with a criminal investigation, into his father, his brother, himself—he doesn't really know what that would mean. It's so far from what he's always known himself as. He's not the same man he was four years ago, not nearly; but even with Annie, her entire existence proof that his destiny is other than the one written so long ago... it's different. She's his, but even at 18 months, she's herself too; she doesn't _belong_ to him.

A house though, a house like this... he lifts his drooping eyelids and looks around the room without moving his head, taking in, as he always does, the history embedded in every inch of 100-year old hardwood, pieces of furniture that have stood in the same place so long that the floor around their shadows is bleached by the sun. He's spent his life standing still in the midst of frenetic movement, never settling long enough to choose a direction of his own. The last four years have slowed enough to give him these aching moments—Rick's hands moving strongly across his shoulders and back, intermittent kisses pressed to his neck, Rick's thighs sturdy and sheltering pressed against his sides as Daryl's guard slowly lowers, as he forgets that he's in Hershel's house and knows only that he's in Rick's arms—and he wants more. He never wants it to stop hurting, he never wants to take it for granted; but for the first time he's found a pain he wants with him the rest of his life.

A different kind of pain shoots through him as Rick's thumb hits a pressure point and Daryl hisses, jerking away and pressing back in the same moment, gritting his teeth against the sparking nerves as Rick slows, works the spot until Daryl relaxes again. This time, he gives up on holding himself apart; collapses back into Rick's chest so there's no room for his hands anymore. Rick takes it in stride; slides his palms down the outside of Daryl's arms, moving inward to rest on his stomach, the base of his sternum. Daryl takes hold of Rick's hand on his stomach, laces their fingers together and sighs as his head settles on Rick's shoulder.

“Thanks,” he grunts. He still feels like he could use a good few hours in a taffy-pulling machine, but just the feeling of Rick's solid chest against his back is a balm on his muscles.

“Mm-hm,” Rick murmurs, kissing Daryl's temple before resting his cheek against Daryl's hair. Daryl feels him inhale deeply, both of them rising with it. “Fuck, you smell good.”

Daryl smirks sleepily. “I'm sure that's what Hershel thinks when choosing his toiletries: 'What's gonna give Rick Grimes a stiffy?'”

Rick bucks his hips in retaliation, making Daryl _very_ aware of Hershel's apparent success, but Rick doesn't go further; tightens his arms around Daryl's torso so they snuggle together, but keeping his pelvis still even as they rub together.

Warmth blooms in Daryl's chest, as it always does when Rick or Beth don't push. One of his many reservations in entering this relationship was the expected pressure to want them all the time. He does want them—he _wants_ them—but his dick isn't always involved, and it took a long, stuttering time to convey that, especially when he doesn't understand it himself. He has these two in his bed every damn night, sometimes in the shower, sleepy-eyed in the kitchen and smiling at him on the sofa. Merle'd summed it up in his Merle way when Daryl finally finally found the courage to explain what the three of them were doing together: “Shit, Darylina, I ain't a queer but my dick's falling off just thinkin' of being pressed between those two. You're gonna need some magic pills to keep up before you know it, little brother.”

He doesn't, is the thing. The sex is good—amazing, earth-shattering, more than he ever imagined sex could be—but most days all he wants is this: wrapped in a pair of strong arms, breath on his ear and a heartbeat to match his own. And they get that. They get that, and he doesn't know what good he ever did in his life to deserve it, but he's stopped questioning it. Feels the press of Rick's half-hard dick as a comfort rather than a demand, as present as any part of him.

Daryl squeezes Rick's hand, trying to convey the thanks he feels. He doesn't know if Rick understands exactly what Daryl means, but he squeezes him back without pause. And that's more than enough.

 


End file.
